“She likes it. She thinks I’m very helpful.” I could sense the mood had changed and I was sorry. [Francesco, my reader and informal editor, said in response to this part: “After reading your whole manuscript and thinking about moments like this, I have to say it really surprises me more people don’t just tell you to fuck off. How can you possibly treat people like this and still manage to land on your feet? Is it women’s internalized sexism? Is that how you manage to get away with this sort of behavior?” It almost took my breath away. I’d been so focused on describing events rather than considering the morals involved, I hadn’t even noticed how repugnant I was. Seeing my reaction, Francesco said: “On the other hand, you are the one who’s reported these things and you seem to have remembered them correctly, so you do seem to know—at least on some level—just how disgusting you are, and maybe that’s why people decide they’re not going to tell you to fuck off. Because they really want to give you at least a little credit for having some sense of morality.” This was Francesco, obviously drunk, not one to mince words, and while I was taken aback, he said it all through his laughter.]

“And what about you, Marcello, you like not working?”

“I love it. I’d like to never work again.”

“Wow. And here I am, wanting to work. More than anything.”

“You didn’t let me finish before. I’m sorry—what I said before came out wrong. When something’s important to me, I just have to say what I think, and obviously this subject is sacred to me.”

“No, sure, fine, you’re the expert here. It doesn’t even make sense for me to talk about it: I mean, it’s not like I have something to show you. I don’t have anything down on paper.”

I told her about the female author and the erotic trilogy, my go-to story on publishing—the best method for cutting off a discussion on books. “She was a nobody. She showed up at a dinner at a literary festival, we knew her through some mediocre stories she’d sent us, and then she just shows up, and with all the candor in the world, she announces she wants to write a bestseller. I thought she was awful, truly awful.”

“Yeah, I remember you told me. But that’s just one of ten thousand projects you’ve worked on as an editor. Besides, sorry, didn’t you say I wanted to become a Ferrante?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, her novels are beautiful. They make you want to shatter the world.”

“But that’s not why we write—to shatter the world.”